


Porcelain, Ivory, Stone

by marthamaydumptruck



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Corruption, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Power Play, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marthamaydumptruck/pseuds/marthamaydumptruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of A Feast for Crows, Sansa Stark (in the guise of Alayne Stone) and the other inhabitants of the Eyrie are at the Gates of the Moon. As Petyr Baelish plots and schemes, Sansa seeks a mentor and a protector.</p><p>A tale of the mockingbird taking the wolf under its wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lord Protector

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished, and will probably stay that way, if I don't suddenly get the urge again.

                                     

The heavy snowfall had carpeted the Gates of the Moon in a white blanket; leaving only the portcullis and the two guards to contrast with the white that had engulfed the Vale. Sansa drew up the hood of her cloak against the bite of the cold and the snow. She trudged towards the west tower, where a light could be seen through one of the topmost windows, one which was seldom extinguished.

The guards merely glanced and gave a nod as she approached the entrance, and took the steps two at a time. The door was closed, but not locked; she rapped softly on the door twice and a familiar voice from inside bid her enter. The warmth in the room hit her senses not unlike a hot cloth flung to her face, which reminded her oddly of the hot springs in Winterfell. _Home_. An aroma of cloves and fresh linen hung in the air, along with the undertone of mint that she had come to associate so closely to the Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn, her father, Littlefinger, Lord Baelish, Petyr. _Her protector_.

He was sitting at his writing desk, engrossed in some letter, his left hand around a goblet filled with a rich crimson liquid and his right fingering the regrown beard on his chin, which seemed to have a few more grey hairs than before her aunt had bid him to shave it off. His face was a placid mask that not even her entrance stirred. Sansa was not surprised. She unfurled her cloak from around her and draped it over a chair. She moved from the solar into the bedchamber, where she took off her snow-dappled boots and lay down on the large canopy bed. The hangings were of a light green colour, and upon closer inspection, she could see the small embroidered mockingbirds that dotted the fine material. The linens were also new, as she could discern from running a hand atop the bedding and feeling the crispness of the cloth, their white as white as the snow falling outside the small window.

“Myrish,” came Petyr’s voice unbidden, slightly hoarse and more than a little musing. “Are they to your liking?”

It took her a few seconds to realise that he was referring to the hangings and the linens. “They’re lovely.” She shuffled her limbs down from the bed, in slight embarrassment at her casual manner, and moved to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, as Petyr seated himself beside her and offered a cup of mulled wine. She took it and wrapped both her hands around the cup, inhaled the aromas and drank deeply. She had found that, taken in sufficient quantity, the dark red drink helped her sleep a much yearned-for dreamless sleep, and more importantly one not disturbed by her little cousin’s almost-nightly visits to her chamber, where he’d insist on nestling close to her and nuzzling his face between her breasts, often followed by fits, and a sleepless night for Sansa.

“Again, sweetling?” Petyr asked in a tone of mild concern, to which Sansa nodded, her eyes heavy. She sipped deeply once again, wincing slightly as she felt the strong warm drink trickle down her throat. An arm snaked around the small of her back as Petyr’s hand settled on her waist. She closed her eyes and let her head fall on his shoulder, inhaling and exhaling deeply as sleep came softly as a warm embrace in a world of stone and snow.


	2. Player or Piece

                                                              

It had been a fortnight since the descent from the Eyrie, the same day that Petyr had divulged his plans for her, namely to marry Harrold Hardyng, the heir of the Vale after sickly Lord Robert, who had become even more so after their descent. His night visits to Alayne had become more frequent and soon enough her nights were becoming ever more short. She had said nothing of it to not one soul, until the day that she had fallen off her horse amidst the snow whilst riding with Lady Myranda. She had woken up hours later in a room not her own, where Maester Colemon and Lady Myranda, or Randa as she insisted on being called, were talking under their breath about something. The Maester told her that she had fallen off her horse due to exhaustion, and was to stay bedridden for at the least one day and night. Randa had taken it upon herself to take care of Sansa, even sharing her own rooms until she fully recovered.

Lady Myranda Royce was gracious enough, and definitely not prudish in the least. Her company was pleasant, yet her constant probing and questioning made Sansa weary, fearing how longer she can hide behind Alayne without showing any cracks in the mask. Petyr had warned her against trusting the seemingly affable Lady Myranda, and she was not about to disappoint him, and possibly put herself in a dangerous position, after all that had come to pass for her to be safely away from the lioness’ den that had become King’s Landing.

After her fall, Petyr hadn’t visited her, which Sansa found passing strange, considering how much care he took to know what she were doing at every waking moment. He must have been awfully busy; else he would surely have inquired after her health.

It had not been two days after her fall that she was back in her rooms, that Lord Robert had crept in and under her sheets once again, his skin clammy and having a sickly milky smell about him. On the third successive night of Lord Robert’s nightly visit she lay abed thinking of what she might do to stop this. At the Eyrie she had often asked the guards to lock Sweetrobin inside his room, but she wouldn’t dare ask this of the guards at the Gates of the Moon, not being sure whether or not to trust the guards and the Royces themselves. In her sleepless desperation she considered going to Lady Myranda’s chambers, but knew that that could turn against her. Is there no one I can turn to? No, I must trust no one. She shuffled in bed as Lord Robert held on tightly to her arm with his moist hands, as though for dear life.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of pleasant things; Winterfell, her direwolf Lady, her mother brushing her hair, her father praying in the godswood, sweet Septa Mordane instructing her in needlework, but as she was drifting sweetly to sleep the images twisted and turned dark. She saw Winterwell, now a charred smoky ruin, Lady bleeding on dirty brown snow, her mother’s bloated white body floating down a river. In another instant she was sat at the dais in the Great Hall of the Red Keep; she looked down and saw that she was nude. A covered plate was in front of her and Joffrey, his sinister smiling face dark and swollen lips black and crimson, looked down upon her. He uncovered the plate, where her father’s and her septa’s heads looked at her through dark holes instead of eyeballs. She woke up with a jolt, sweat beads on her forehead and her heart beating twice as fast.

She freed herself from the clutches of her cousin and put on a heavy wolfskin cloak and the first pair of slippers she found, and headed out of the East Tower. Not really knowing her destination, she wondered aimlessly in the snow, until she saw a light in a tower that she recognized as Lord Petyr’s , her lord father’s. Shivering and not really thinking it through, she told the guards she had an important message for her father and scurried up the steps. She found Lord Baelish poring over some dusty manuscript, and as soon as she walked in he twisted his head and with an expression that she could only read as surprise. He got to his feet, closed the heavy oak door and turned to Sansa, placing both his hands on either side of her arms and giving a small squeeze. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he moved her towards the hearth and into a chair. “Here, drink. You’ll feel better.” He said, offering a cup of a sweet-smelling crimson drink. She grabbed the cup and took a swig. As the warmth of the drink passed through her system she stopped shivering.

Petyr pushed a chair close and sat down, one hand on Sansa’s knee, and the other toying with the few wisps of hair regrown from his chin. “Now, tell me. What has brought you here at this hour?” He lay back comfortably and sipped from his own cup. “Lord Robert,” Sansa gave a cough, attempting to clear the hoarsness from her throat. “He won’t let me sleep,” she blurted out, deciding it would be better not to mention the nightmares.

“Ah. What are we to do of our dear Sweetrobin. This must not persist. I will not have my daughter lose sleep and risk injury over this.” He muttered, half to himself, half to Sansa, who sat quietly and sipped the mulled wine. For a moment, she feared Petyr would do to Lord Robert as he did to his Lady mother, but even she could see that her little cousin was not far from the the Stranger’s embrace. The very thought sent a chill up her spine.  
“My sweet Alayne, we must not do anything… brash, especially not here,” Petyr said, as though he had read her thoughts. “Come now, you must rest.” He offered her a hand and she took it, and was lead into the adjoining bedchamber. “Lord Robert won’t find you here.” He muttered, gesturing at the large four-poster bed, with blue and cream hangings, neatly-made and inviting. “I will be in the next room.” He moved close to her, gave her a quick fatherly kiss on the forehead and left the room in a flourish of green velvet of his robe, closing the door behind him.

Sansa was left alone in the room; she held her cloak closer, even though the room was warm. The wolfskin cloak was one of the few things that remained to her from Winterfell. She lay down gingerly on the bed and covered herself with the cloak. At first she felt mildly uncomfortable, in the bed of a man she wasn’t sure she even trusted. His manner was more decent than it had been a few days before, when he had evidently been in his cups, and he had sat her at his lap and divulged his plans for her and kissed her not as any father ought to kiss a daughter. It had seemed to Sansa that that was one of the few occasion on which she had seen a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Her sleep soon came to her. That night she slept soundlessly, as she hadn’t slept for a while.

She woke to the smell of bacon, eggs and a subtler whiff of mint, suddenly realizing she was quite hungry. She sat up and saw a plate of breakfast on the stand next to the bed, and soon grabbed it and wolfed down the food. A soft knock came on the door “Are you decent, my sweet?” came the voice of her father, and for a moment she hesitated, pulling the cloak up to under her chin. “Yes, father, you may come in.”

He first peeped his head in from the side and smiled his usual smile and then walked in, holding one of her dresses. “Slept well?” he asked, standing next to one of the four posts of the bed. “Yes, thank you… for last night,” Petyr gave her another smile, “Please, I wish I could have done more.” He lay the dress on the bed “I got this from your room. It would be best not to be seen leaving here wearing a shift and a cloak.” Sansa nodded in approval, a sad smile settling upon her lips. Petyr sat down at her feet and for a moment his seemingly permanent smile faded slightly, as he assumed a more earnest expression, and placed a palm upon her covered left foot. “You are well, Alayne?” he made strange emphasis on her name, as though he meant something else, and she knew he meant Sansa. “Yes, but…” she thought carefully how to word her thoughts, “I wonder, what’s next?” she wanted to be let in on his plans, to know of the moves before she would be moved.

“You leave that to father,” He stretched his arm and gave her a playful poke on the nose “in the meantime you see that our Sweetrobin rests and does not shake too vigorously.” He intoned sarcastically. That made Alayne want to hit him. How could he jest on such a matter? A sudden uncontrollable anger came over her and she lunged like a wolf at its prey. “How? How can you?” she half-growled at his face, whilst beating at his chest with her palms. He only winced and covered his face with his hands. As suddenly as she had lunged, she stopped and the anger and frustration was gone as well. She saw Petyr beneath her, pegged to the bed by her legs, face still covered. “Oh, I’m so sorry…” she let him loose from her legs and draped her arms around him. “I… I didn’t meant to hurt you,” he removed his hands from his face and wrapped one around her back and the other on her head, as though cradling her, as they set up together, still embraced. He loosened his arms, and set to moving the hair away from her face.

“Please, stop” she demanded softly, and lowered his hands with her own. “I am sorry, I forgot myself.” She hung her head in shame, but she wouldn’t leave it at that. She had to speak her mind now, or she would never do it. “But how could you speak so lightly of your own stepson’s impending death? And why won’t you tell me of your plans for me? Must I find you in your cups to find out what you keep in store for me?” she stopped for an instant, catching her breath. The expression on Petyr’s face was harder than usual to read, but it seemed to straddle between surprise and amusement. “I don’t want to be a piece.” She placed her hand on his and gave a light squeeze. “How can I play the game, without knowing the rules?”


	3. Mockingbird's Wing

                                                   

And so it had come to pass that on nights during which Alayne would lie sleepless in her bed, whether it be at the hand of nightmares or Sweetrobin’s fits and needs, she would seek her father’s company. He never complained about these visits, albeit Sansa sometimes wondered when _he_ was getting his sleep. Sometimes they would simply sit, drink and talk in Petyr’s solar, sitting at either side of his writing desk, sometimes about what was happening in King’s Landing and the rest of the realm and other times about the Vale and all the different houses and seats that belong to it. When Petyr drank a cup too much of mulled wine, his tongue would slip and divulge more information than he cared to, as well be more free with his show of affection. When Sansa grew tired, she would retire to Petyr’s bedchamber and the next morning return to her own, well-rested and always more knowledgeable on what was happening beyond the Gates of the Moon.

On one morning she woke to Petyr softly caressing her hair, sitting on the side of the bed and looking down at her through hooded eyes, a queer look upon his face. He was wearing a light tunic laced up to mid-chest. Upon his chest, half-hidden under his tunic, was a pinkish scar. Petyr saw her eyeing it; he ran a finger across the scar tissue, “An old gift, that, from your kind uncle.” He mused, exposing the rest of the scar, a slanted line ending at his navel. Sansa knew about the duel between the young Petyr Baelish and her Uncle Brandon Stark, but she knew scant about the details.

“What happened?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. “A mistake,  sweetling,” Petyr shuffled in his seat, resting an arm on the wooden frame of the bed and toying with a piece of lace from his tunic. “A foolish mistake done out of unrequited affection,” he made to continue, but stopped himself, as his unsmiling green-grey eyes bore into her own blues, which made her feel somewhat exposed and uncomfortable. She cast down her eyes and busied herself with flattening the coverlet. She felt Petyr move and then felt the warmth of a hand upon her face “You do look remarkably like her, you know.” he muttered in half a whisper, running the ball of his thumb across her flushed cheek. _He had loved my lady mother well_ , she thought, _but she is dead and I am not her_.

In one quick move she broke contact and got up from the bed, standing awkwardly beside the nightstand. “I should go,” She muttered, glancing at the dress Petyr had brought her. “Lord Robert will be demanding my attention by now.” That was a lie; at this hour Sweetrobin would still be tucked away, dreaming that he was a big strong knight. Petyr let his arm fall dejectedly onto the bed. “Of course,” he said softly, rising and standing near Sansa, close enough for her to smell the mint on his breath. “Perhaps we can ask Maester Colemon to increase the dose of sweetsleep in Sweetrobin’s sweetmeats.” _Three doses of sweetsleep give the gift of eternal sleep_ , she remembered Maester Luwin saying, but the thought still made her shudder. Petyr perhaps sensed her feelings about the matter and dropped the subject.

He moved to the small window and wiped the condensation from the glass with a palm. “I shall be leaving at first light on the morrow,” he said, peering out at the vast whiteness “I am invited to one of Lady Waynwood's son’s name day celebrations.” Sansa felt a twinge of jealousy; she longed for music and people being merry, and maybe she would even meet her betrothed. “Am I to join?” she asked, in her most pleasant tone. Petyr turned to face her, smiled his Littlefinger smile and beckoned her with a flick of the hand; she complied and drew close to him. He stepped even closer, “My sweet Alayne,” he muttered in half a whisper, and planted a damp minty kiss upon her cheek. “Will you miss your father so?” he asked through his smile, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “Or is it that you want a peek at the young falcon?” He placed a hand on her bare wrist and gave a small squeeze.

She could feel the cold from outside permeating the glass window and her pale skin turned goose-pimply. “I _will_ miss you terribly,” she muttered in a lightly mournful tone. She lost the grip of his hand and wrapping her own thin arms around his exposed neck, hands connected at the nape; easy enough to do considering that they were of equal height. _Two could play at this game, one she only knew from observation._

Petyr smiled widely and gave a light chuckle, placing his own hands one on either side of her hips. “I see that you’re learning, and not just about the houses great and small of the Vale of Arryn.” Alayne ignored the remark and gave a pout, “It has been so long since I’ve seen anywhere but the Eyrie or the Gates of the Moon.” She complained, making sure to infuse a dose of sweetness. Petyr linked his hands at the small of her back, making her spine tingle. “As much as I’d like to please my sweet daughter, I cannot risk the journey. This is for your well-being, Alayne.”

She gave a dramatic puff, loosened her arms and broke away from him, turning to face the bed. “I would like to dress now.” She demanded icily. “As my lady commands.” He left the room and closed the door behind him. Sansa grabbed a pillow and flung it in the general direction of the door, where it hit an armoire and fell to the floor. She felt foolish, a child asking for a toy or sweets she can never get. And yet she knew Petyr was in the right. She knew there were men still looking for her. _So why does it feel like I just lost a battle?_      

Alayne put on the simple verdant gown Petyr brought her, fixed her hair and went into the solar. Petyr was sat facing the hearth, flicking through a leather-bound tome. He turned to look at her, “Oh, don’t be cross with me,” he muttered in a slightly annoyed tone “you know this is for your own good.” She took the seat next to his and nodded dejectedly. “I know.” Petyr closed the tome and smiled, “You’ll have Lady Myranda to entertain you; we know how… sprightly she is.” He said, in an attempt to lift her spirits. She gave a half-smile to appease him. “And I have these to keep you company as well,” he said, handing her two books, one much thicker than the other. “One concerning the history of House Arryn, and the lighter one a collection of tales on the Knights of the Vale of old.” He explained, as Sansa peered at the vibrant illustrations inside the latter volume.

“Now, as much as I loath to see the back of you, I must return to business.” He muttered, rising from his chair. Sansa mirrored his actions and made to the door, when Petyr reached a hand and grasped the sleeve of her dress. “Won’t you give your father a kiss goodbye?” he asked, a strange sadness in his tone. She spun round and coiled her arms around Petyr, the tomes falling onto the floor. She rested her head upon his shoulder and closed her eyes. In return Petyr laid a hand on her head and softly caressed her chestnut-dyed hair, his other hand rubbing her back comfortingly. She lifted her head an inch, “Come back soon.” She whispered, to which Petyr simply gave a small nod.       

She held the books close to her chest under her cloak, protecting them from the snowfall, as she made her way to her apartments. Despite the guards and the Gate of the Moon, she only ever felt protected in Petyr’s company. She recalled the flash of wroth in his eyes when he pushed his late lady wife out of the moon door, and she knew deep down that under his wing she is safe, whether it be Petyr’s or Littlefinger’s wing.

_That is, until I grow my own._


	4. Sweet Mulled Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Petyr and quite a bit of Myranda Royce in this chapter. But on another note, things are getting steamier up in here (about time too). ;)

                                                             

Sansa had never been too fond of books, especially those not pertaining to tales and fables, but she learnt that Alayne found their company surprisingly pleasing. The days following Petyr’s leave from the Gates of the Moon, Alayne spent the time either reading to Sweetrobin from the book of stories her father left her, or when Lord Robert was fast asleep she would stay abed and read from the histories of the Arryns. When the air outside wasn’t too cold she would venture out to the empty godswood and read there, or when her eyes got too tired she would kneel down in the snow and attempt a snow castle.

 

On one such day she sat under the vigil of the heart tree, the heavy tome on her lap, while nibbling at a piece of sweetbread she nicked from the kitchens. The snow had stopped for a while, for which Sansa was glad, as she had freshly dyed her hair the previous day and did not wish to wet it. A rustle came from the woods and Sansa dismissed it as the wind, until a figure emerged from the trees. Sansa recognized the buxom figure of Lady Myranda Royce almost immediately.

 

“There you are, Alayne,” Myranda muttered, elated. “What a strange place to scuttle off to.” She voiced, edging closer and sitting down by Sansa on the large tree root. _Alayne must  be unfamiliar with the Old Gods._ “I like it here.” Alayne muttered, lancing around. “It’s peaceful.” She said, closing the tome and covering it with her cloak.

“That it is. Good for a sneaky outdoor fuck, too. Though it has always set my teeth on edge somewhat.” Myranda said, giving a light laugh and then a shudder. Alayne blushed and looked down at her gloved hands. It seemed that Lady Myranda derived some ounce of pleasure in seeing Alayne blush profusely.

“With that fair flushed face of yours and all this snow around, you seem the very vision of the Maiden herself, Alayne.” She said, and Alayne felt her face flush even redder.

 

Myranda stood up and offered Alayne an arm. “Come, sweet maiden,” she said, smiling, to which Sansa got up and linked her arm through Myranda’s, clutching the book under her other arm. “This search has given me a thirst.” She muttered, striding forward and into the woods. “Have you been looking long for me, my lady? I do apologize.” Alayne worded in her most gracious tone. “No need for apologies. And haven’t I already told you? It’s Randa.” She demanded, emphasizing her name. “Of course, m—Randa.” Alayne said, smiling at the other girl.

 

Once inside Lady Myranda’s room, Alayne accepted a cup of mulled wine and sipped lightly. The taste struck her as especially sweet, compared to the one her father favoured, which was rick and aromatic. “I like my mulled wine sweetened. I hope it is to your liking.” Randa said, as she poured a cup for herself and took a seat in front of the hearth. “It is.” Muttered Alayne, taking another sip as the warmth spread across her body. “I have had word from your father,” said Randa, crossing her feet and drinking deeply from her cup. Alayne moved to the edge of her seat, as the room was becoming increasingly warm. She had not heard anything from Petyr since he left, and was curious whether his words to Randa concerned her. “He tells me that we are to prepare a feast.” She said in a tone of mild annoyance, “No mention is made for whom is this feast.”

 

Alayne got a queer feeling in her stomach. _What if Petyr returns with Harry the Heir?_ She was eager to see this young falcon she was hearing so much about, and yet a feeling of dread overtook her at the thought of him. Alayne remained silent.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?” she asked, looking Alayne in the eyes questioningly. “I do not.” She replied, breaking Randa’s stare to look into the fire roaring in the the hearth.

“Oh well, I thought that maybe Lord Petyr has told you something in those nightly visit of yours to his apartments.” She said with a shrug and a knowing tone. Sansa hesitated, and for a moment knew not what to say. She recalled her father’s words concerning Lady Myranda – _She likes to play the merry fool, but underneath she’s shrewder than her father. Guard your tongue around her._ “I have trouble sleeping at times. Father lets me peruse his books.” Alayne said, as confidently as she could.    

 

“My dear Alayne, no need to be so defensive,” Randa gave a light chuckle “I admit having a passing curiosity of our Lord Protector, and I know you are quite close, but I care not to intrude between father and daughter.” She admitted, with a smile that suggested otherwise to Sansa, albeit not understanding the true meaning of her words. Alayne kept quiet as she drank the last sip of wine in her cup. “We are the slaves of our own desires, Alayne,” she said whilst pouring herself and Alayne more wine, “and I know of the charms of an older man, even if it is ones father.” Sansa was beginning to understand now, and she blushed at the mere thought, the room warm and stuffy around her. She recalled the time when Petyr had helped her build the snow Winterfell and kissed her in the Eyrie. The one kiss that had cost Lysa Arryn’s life.

 

“Randa, might I open a window?” she asked, her face feeling as hot as a blacksmith’s forge. Randa voiced her concent and Alayne rushed to a window, as if gasping for air, and open the tinted glass window. A gust of cold air hit her squarely on the face, and she could breathe again.

 

Later, still in Randa’s room, Alayne lay on her side on the bed, facing the other girl. Alayne had taken more mulled wine that she ought to and was feeling quite light-headed, but pleasantly so. “I wonder, Alayne, if you are as innocent as you seem.” Randa mused, playing with a curl from her thick dark mane. “You’d be surprised.” Teased Alayne, and only after she had said the words had she regretted them. “Oh. Well, let’s see,” Randa muttered, as she pursed her lips together, “tell me, Alayne, how often you pleasure yourself?” she asked, as she gave a giggle very unlike herself. Alayne was puzzled; she had been taught about matters of the marriage bed, but Randa’s words still held no meaning to her. “Ah. So you’ve never played with yourself,” Responded by merely a confused look on Alayne’s face, Randa gave a loud and open laugh. “Alayne, next time you cannot sleep or feeling bored or upset, lock the door, lie down on your bed and go on a quest, if you will, to your cunt.” She instructed, and then lay back and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long till Randa was fast asleep, and sleep did not take long to meet Alayne either.

 

The following day, the weather proving to be more of the same, and Alayne ventured to her favourite spot at the edge of the godswood and kneeled down on the vast carpet of white to start afresh with a new snow castle. When she was satisfied with her creation, she strode back to the castle, hungry and quite cold. She had a slice of meat pie in the kitchens and went back to her rooms. She shook off her snow-caked shoes and heavy cloak and let herself fall back onto the bed. She read for a while, about the Targaryen civil war, the Dance of the Dragons, and when her mind started to wander, she lie down and closed her eyes.

 

She recalled Myranda’s words from the previous night and grew ever more curious. Her right hand wandered as if of its own accord on top of her groin, fingers between legs, she exerted pressure and even through the layers of her dress could feel the warmth of her body. As she rubbed her crotch with increasing pressure, a strange, pleasant feeling started rising inside her. She caught herself licking her lips and then biting them, as her hands fumbled with her skirts, until she found her smallclothes. She brushed her index finger across her smallclothes, which clung to her slit, as they were oddly damp. She pressed down and a rush of pleasure surged through her body, as her left hand grasped on tightly to the coverlet. She started exerting pressure in circles and her whole body shook, and as she increased speed, an even more intense surge passed through her. A moan escaped her lips as her whole being was consumed by that ardent fire. Her hand stopped its rubbing, falling flatly to her side.

 

For a long while she simply lay there, her chest rising and falling, remnants of that great wave of pleasure washing away from her. As she slowly regained herself, she beamed stupidly at anything and everything, as though she had made a great discovery. She sat up and found herself feeling the happiest she felt in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't feel this was worth a f/f tag, since nothing really happens between them. If anyone feels otherwise, please tell me in the comments.


	5. The Mockingbird's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait (if there was anyone waiting).

                           

 

The sound of hooves and horses neighing woke Alayne on that crisp winter day.  She had slept well, and undisturbed by her sickly little cousin, who had been spending most hours of the day in his own bed, too weak to do otherwise. The flurry of sounds from outside Alayne’s window seemed rather curious,  as the Gates of the Moon were rather calm on most morns. When finally it struck her that the cause of the commotion might be Petyr, back from his visit to Ironoaks, along with  his anonymous guest and their retinue,  Alayne sprung like a cat from her bed and darted to the window.

In the courtyard below was a sizeable group of  people, some still on horseback and some descending and gaining their legs back, after what looked like a long journey. Alayne envied them. She envied being travel-tired, the open road and the woods at night, things that she had never felt longing for, but most of all she envied them their freedom. In the midst of  the crowd she spotted Lady Anya Waynwood, standing nobly in her old age, talking to a man who held a more that passing resemblance to the older woman. Alayne assumed that this was Lady Waynwood’s elder son, Ser Morton Waynwood. Where thesePetyr’s guests? It certainly appeared thus, as she spotted no other noteworthy faces in the crowd.

She so desired for all Petyr’s plans to be known to her, but even when he was well within his cups, which he rarely let himself be, Petyr rarely opened up as to his plans for her, Robert, the Eyrie or anything else. Almost unconsciously, her eyes searched the crowd for Petyr. She hadn’t had word from him since his leave, and her mind was bursting with questions. She finally spotted him at a corner of the yard, and for a moment she had the urge to call out to him, but thought otherwise of it. _Subtlety is key, Alayne._ And surely she didn’t want to give the guardian of her betrothed a bad impression.

She busied herself in getting ready, opting for a sky blue gown, not too understated, yet far from meek, proudly wearing the house Arryn colour. She was a bastard daughter after all, and had to act with the proper humility of such. She suddenly thought of Jon. He never crossed the boundaries, yet in time she had regarded him very much as part of the family. She wondered where he was now, and a small flicker of hope inside her wished him to be safe on the wall still.

A wrap came from her door and a guard announced himself. “The Lord Protector wishes you to see that Lord Robert is fit to receive guests for tonight’s feast.” Alayne felt the disappointment rush to her, as she almost forgot how to speak. “Thank you, I shall.” She murmured, as she gave the guard her back. When the guard left the room, she let herself fall backwards on the bed, closing her eyes. _Was I expecting for Petyr to report to me immediately after his return? Am I still this naive?_ During the last few days of her stay in King’s Landing, she had never felt so alone, but as time slowly passed in the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon she realised she had Petyr, her _father_ , to lean onto, yet now the realisation of how truly alone she was came back to her, along with the tears she knew so well in King’s Landing. She wept freely.

After washing her face with some cold water, she gathered herself and made her way to Sweetrobin’s rooms. _I must be strong. And cunning. Like my father._ She knocked on the door to Lord Robert’s rooms, and was greeted in by Maester Colemon. _Yet, I will never forget who I truly am. I will wear a mask if I must_. _I will be the mockingbird’s daughter._ She was struck by the sickly smell of the room, and busied herself with opening a window, to the Maester’s opposition. “How is my Sweetrobin feeling today?” she beamed, hurrying to her cousin’s side. Buried deep within the large four-poster bed, a face paler than pure snow, could barely be seen. Robert’s heavy-lidded eyes seemed to open with great strain. “Alayne,” he uttered weekly. “I... miss you” he finished, taking in a long breath of air.

Lady Waynwood could not see Lord Robert in his present state. Petyr had promised the Lords Declarant that he would prove his worth in raising Lord Robert, and that surely did not mean leading him to the Stranger’s arms. “Maester Colemon, we must prepare Lord Robert for the feast tonight.” She declared, to which Maester Colemon nodded and scuttled to his table of assorted jars and items. She addressed the child in the bed, slowly and soflty, with all the care she could muster, “Now, my Lord, there are very important people here to see you, come from a long way away. And they are very eager to see you.” Robert seemed to give a slight nod. “We must get you clean and looking like the Prince you truly are. How would you like to be Prince Rhaegar tonight, my Lord?” Alayne smiled, as she felt a twinge of sadness and pity for the sickly lord. His pale lips gave the impression of a faint smile.

A few hours later, through Alayne’s words and the Maester’s restorative potion, Robert was on his feet, albeit rather shakily, and looking as presentable and princely as he could. A guard arrived, announcing that the feast had commenced and their presence was awaited. Robert would not leave Alayne’s hand, and she had to escort him in her present state of dishevelment. From the trouble it had taken to bathe and dress Robert, her dress was spotted with bath water and she couldn’t imagine what her hair looked like, not having had time to look into a looking glass. But if she let go now, Robert would not go through with it. _Petyr trusted me with this task. I must not disappoint._

Her hand securely in Lord Robert’s small clammy hand, she kneeled down to look him directly in his dewy blue eyes, “You are Lord Robert Arryn, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Lord of the Eyrie” she intoned, softly yet earnestly. Inside the Hall where all the persons of import of the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon, along with the Ironoaks guests. As she walked with Lord Robert toward the dais, she felt all eyes on them, scrutinizing their every step, a sensation she wasn’t unfamiliar with. She walked with head held high and back straight; she may not look like a lady at this point, but she was not going to leave her manners behind her so easily.

At the dais were seated Lord Nestor Royce, and Myranda Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood, her presumed elder son Morton Waynwood, and Petyr Baelish, who was sat in between the Royces and Waynwoods, with two empty seats in the middle of the dais, which Alayne presumed were for her and Lord Robert. As a bastard, she felt quite privileged to be given a seat on the dais, yet she was wary of what the guests might think of this. She helped Robert in the great wooden seat at the centre of the dais, in between Petyr and Lord Nestor Royce. She was going to loosen her grip on Lord Robert for her to take her own seat when he exclaimed “No,” seemingly directed towards Petyr “Alayne sits next to me!” Petyr’s cool expression wasn’t shaken, “Of course”, he muttered, and gave a small nod, shuffling to the next seat, beside Lady Waynwood. Alayne shuffled uncomfortably into Petyr’s seat, still holding Robert’s hand.

As the first course was over and the hall was getting warmer and noisier, Alayne caught herself quite enjoying the atmosphere and feeling of the crowded hall. It had been quite some time since her last feast. Lord Robert had slowly loosened grip on her hand and seemed to be enjoying his food. Alayne looked toward Randa, who looked up from her plate and winked, raising her cup and drinking deeply. Alayne emulated her and sipped from her own cup. She suddenly felt a hand upon her knee and someone whisper in her ear. “I’m proud of you, Alayne.” Came Petyr’s voice, rather tired and hoarse, yet still tinged with his usual flair. He gave her ear a quick peck of his lips and returned to his cups and casual conversation with Lady Waynwood. However, he did not move his hand from her knee, but only tightened his grasp, stroking his thumb against her thigh. Petyr’s words worked their charm and any disdain or anger she had harboured toward Petyr in the previous days, ebbed away.

Flagons of wine and dishes with meat and vegetable and sweetmeats passed in a warm, dazed blur. Lord Robert was taken to his room to rest by Maester Colemon, and guests were slowly leaving the Hall. And not before long, the dais was also empty. “My sweet sweet Alayne, might I escort you to your chambers?” Petyr asked as he bowed and offered Alayne his hand. “You may, Father.” She said, as she took his hand. As she stood, her head spun, and felt herself falling forward, but Petyr steadied her with an arm on the waist. “Oh my, I see you’ve quite enjoyed Lady Waynwood’s gift.” Alayne was rather too weary for utterances, so she nodded and smiled softly. Petyr helped her towards her room, and when inside he laid her gently on her bed. “Now, my sweet, are you going to give me a proper welcome back?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Alayne sat up and draped her arms over Petyr’s shoulders, enveloping him and pressing herself against his chest, feeling the mockingbird pin upon his doublet, hard and cold against her chest.

She broke the embrace and looked into his gray-green eyes, rather dazed with wine and weariness. “Don’t ever leave me in the dark like that.” She demanded, keeping his gaze fixed “I _am_ your daughter.” Petyr’s eyes flared, as a knowing smile formed at the side of his lips. He edged forward and kissed her squarely on the mouth. It felt like hours until he broke contact. “Sweet dreems, my sweet Sa-Alayne.” He muttered softly into her mouth, and left her to her questions and her dreams.  


	6. Clean Hands

                                            [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2nrzdki)

Alayne awoke to the sound of bridsong. As she opened her eyes, she saw that her room was bathed in sunlight, tinted light blue, having passed through the blue glass of her window. She moved her legs softly out of the warm bed onto the ground. She sat up and wiggled her toes, enjoying the warm stones under her bare toes. She was a Summer child, and the warmth and life of Summer suited her. However, deep down, she was a Stark from Winterfell and Winter was in her blood. This was the first Winter she was witnessing in her lifetime. She sometimes noticed small things that she felt set her somewhat apart from the Southerners. She did not need as many heavy cloaks and furs to wander outside, and in her rooms she rarely left windows shut, stifling the hot air inside. She enjoyed the crisp winter wind on her cheek, and the gradual feeling of warmth once one is inside. These things, which she sometimes thought were partially imagined, helped remind and reconfirm her true identity to herself. She would not let herself get lost in the mask she had donned.  

She went to her window to inspect this strange sunny day. Opening the glass window, she was greeted by a sharp beam of sunlight squarely in her face. She squinted, as her eyes adjusted to the intense brightness. She examined the outdoors, and the courtyard below. The sunlight shone on the previous day's snow, making it shine and shimmer with a new intense purity and whiteness. The courtyard was empty but for a few of the Royces' servants, going about their business. From the stables she could here horses neighing, and the sound of the Blacksmith's hammer hitting the anvil hung in the air, like a bell tower in the distance. Alayne breathed in deeply, taking in the sunlight, the snow, and everything else into her being. And exhaled. She found herself smiling as she felt a strange calmness wash over her.

The past few days, Alayne had spent most of her mornings, and indeed most of her days, taking care and providing company for Lord Robert. She had assumed responsibility over the sickly child. And despite how loathsome he could be at times, she formed a strange, caring bond with the child. Petyr rarely visited her or Lord Robert. She assumed that he was busy, making plans, some possibly regarding her, with Lady Waynwood. Alayne missed her 'lessons' with her father. She wished to be invisible for a few moments and sneak into Petyr's meetings with various people, or else be a small mouse, able to be anywhere at any point, without being noticed.   

Despite her self-appointed responsibilities, she decided that she would spend the day outside, it being such lovely weather. Lord Robert had Maester Colemon for today, and anyhow, most times her cousin was far too exhausted to utter words or move from his bed. She donned a lighter dress than usual, her boots, and a cloak, tucking under her arm a tome given to her by Petyr to read. Not wishing to attract anyone's attention, she took the kitchen route, passing through the kitchens and behind the stables. As she was making her way to the small godswood, just past the back door to the stables, she heard voices, and the subject discussed piqued her interest.

"...Littlefinger's bastard daughter is like a mother to Lord Robert,"

"Some say he doesn't even have a Maester."

"Nonsense. I've seen the chained fool fumbling about. Seems a tad shady if you ask me."

"No wonder the poor child is dying." 

The slanderous voices were not familiar to Alayne, and this made her think that they might be part of the party that came to the Gates of the Moon along with Lady Waynwood. She edged closer to door, to better hear the voices within.

"I tell ya, that bastard of Littlefinger's is too pretty for her own good."

"Lady Waynwood seems to think well of her. And she trusts her father."

A loud, boisterous laugh came from the other voice. "Ah. Gold, my friend. Littlefinger  _was_ master of coin to the king in King's Landing after all. If Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock shat gold, then Petyr Baelish of the Fingers pisses it out." The two men laugh, and then their voices slowly fade away. 

When Alayne heard a door slam shut, she hurried to the godswood. She found a nice clearing by a stream, whose water had melted and was rushing softly by. She kneeled by the stream and cupped her hands, lowering them gingerly into the cold, clear water. She cupped some water into her hands and moved it to her lips, drinking deeply. She felt the gelid water pass through her, shaking her pleasantly from within. She sat cross-legged on a dry patch of earth, with the book beside her. For a long moment she simply took in her surroundings, breathing in the scent of drying earth and bark, the pine and spruce trees all around, whose needles were dripping with melted ice. Alayne pondered on what she had just overheard. Their damning words as to her care of Lord Robert worried her in no small measure. She understood that this was mere gossip, but she also knew that gossip often was the kindling to a bigger fire. What if in the eventuality of Robert's death she were accused and blamed? Would Petyr protect and defend her then, like he didn't protect her real father and mother? Would she end up taking the fall for him, like Marillion? These thoughts put doubt and fear in her clouded mind. What was she to do? She recalled Petyr's words - "Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.". 

Lady Waynwood and all others had to see that Lord Robert's sickness came from within. And that Alayne was innocent of all accusations against her as regards to Lord Robert. She needed to remove herself from Robert's care. If they were not seen together, it would be harder to blame her.  She was no longer a lady, daughter of one of the great houses of Westeros. She was no longer guarded by strong men in armor. What protection she had came from the fact that she was the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector. One whose power and position had already been questioned once before by the Lords Declarant. If the Waynwoods truly believed that she was responsible for Lord Robert's sickness, what was stopping them or the other Lords Declarant from dispatching an assassin whose dagger had her name written on it? She feared for her life. 

 

*          *          *

 

Later in the day, Alayne emerged from the small wood, a small clump of winter blooms in one hand and the book under an arm. The sun was setting and the light of day was turning into a shade of coral. Alayne made for the Lord Protector's tower. Once outside his door, she made an attempt at straightening the folds that had formed in her dress and shake off the twigs and leaves on the hem of her dress and her boots. She hadn't been alone with her father since the feast, and on that night she wasn't in her full senses, so she felt a measure of anticipation and unease, mixed with her doubts as to her safety. She gave the door two sharp knocks. "Yes?" came the hoarse voice of her father from within. "It's me, father." she replied. It took a few moments for Petyr to reply. "Come in, Alayne."

She softly opened the heavy door, and entered the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. Petyr wasn't anywhere to be seen in the solar. Alayne took off her cloak, draping it over a chair; she placed the book on a table and was arranging the flowers neatly over a chest of drawers, when a hand snaked its way around her midsection and she felt a warm breath and scratching from a beard on the soft flesh of her neck. A hand moved the material of her dress off her shoulder and a kiss was placed on her collarbone. She caught herself closing her eyes and savoring the warmth coming through her back from the other body, as her flesh turned goose-pimply. Alayne was transported to her room, to that intensely private moment when she was pleasuring herself like Myranda had told her.

"Gods, sweetling. I _have_ missed you." came the voice from behind her, and she was abruptly transported to the present. Her eyes darted open and she swiftly turned around, making Petyr take a step backwards. She looked down at her feet and felt herself getting flushed. She pulled the sleeves of her dress back up and fussed with straightening it down again, gathering herself back again. She looked up and towards Petyr, seemingly finally acknowledging his presence. She had come here with a purpose, one which she would not easily give up on. "Have you, father?" she said coolly, with a hint of petulance, which she had often seen in Joffrey, and easily picked up. Petyr seemed to have been caught in mid-dress. His tunic was laced up halfway exposing the scar on his chest more than ever. The wisps of hair on his chin had grown into a fledgling of what his pointed beard used to be. "Do you doubt it? You hurt me, child." he retorted, with more than a hint of humor in his tone. She turned back round, fussing with the flowers she picked from the wood. She fell silent. At times, silence spoke louder than words, she thought. 

"I intend to send our sweet Lord Robert away for a while," he offered, seemingly out of nowhere. Alayne was struck to her core. Her worries, her plans, for removing herself from Lord Robert's vicinity; how had Petyr known? For a moment, she stood frozen, with her back to her father. "Does this not please you, sweetling?" he asked, and for a moment he sounded like a child, seeking approval from his mother, or a sweetheart. Alayne turned round once again, but this time all hesitation had ebbed away, and she sprinted towards Petyr, embracing him with a thud of their bodies meeting. He caressed her long hair, which had become tangled with small branches and leaves, while she rested her head on his shoulder, taking in the mixed scent of mint, soap and an underlying muskiness on his neck.         

"Clean hands." she whispered into his ear, and there planted a soft kiss. 


End file.
